


Numbers of Chaos

by primeideal



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Canon-typical kink mentions, F/M, Gen, Multiple Alternate Universes, Portal Stones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25803052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: For every toss of the dice, there are many ways they might fall. Particularly when Mat is involved.
Relationships: Nynaeve al'Meara/Mat Cauthon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: Alternate Universe Exchange 2020





	Numbers of Chaos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liesmyth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/gifts).



When Mat had first read _The Travels of Jain Farstrider_ , he had thought the narrator self-effacing at times. Jain had sailed with the Sea Folk and traded in remote Shara. Surely he had nothing to regret, even if his marriage was not the best.

But being wed to the village Wisdom had taught him how someone could be a hero to those they’d barely met, and just an ordinary person at home. Mistress Cauthon had mended broken bones and delivered premature babies. She could warn you when a storm was coming and coax life even from barren fields. In bed, she was just Nynaeve. Nynaeve who had scolded him when he played pranks growing up, and who, for all her miracles, could no sooner cure Rand’s tempers than she could make the sun rise in the west.

“Egwene will know how to handle him,” Nynaeve said. “She can do things I’ve never dreamed of. That time with the Aybara twins—”

“You only say that to shoo Taren Ferry whiners away from the door,” said Mat.

“And what’s wrong if I do? Some women ought to learn how to solve their own problems instead of bothering Wisdoms with everything. Besides,” Nynaeve teased, “I have the right to some time alone with my husband, don’t I?”

With that, Mat could certainly agree. Some days he still marvelled that Nynaeve saw him as a partner in good times and bad, not just a truant to paddle. Well, if she still gave him paddlings on occasion, that was only because he enjoyed it.

Then again, anyone who didn’t know better would think Mat the elder of the two. He had grown a full beard and a mustache that was as fine as any in Emond’s Field, while Nynaeve still looked like she was barely old enough to braid her hair.

Peddlers and gleemen brought word that the Queen in Andor was dead and a king ruled in her place, or that the Daughter-Heir governed in the stead of an emperor she had never seen, or that Trollocs and Shadowspawn walked the ruins of Caemlyn. Mat scoffed. The Two Rivers had not paid tribute to Caemlyn since before his father’s day, so it was all the stuff of stories to him. There were sheep to shear and herbs to gather for Nynaeve there in Emond’s Field. Those were real.

They had come to Deven Ride to investigate an illness that was killing Wil al’Seen’s sheep, their bodies so rotten that not even predators would drag them away. Mat was privately skeptical that Nynaeve would have any advice to give; she was a fine tracker, but not a trained sheepherder. Still, once she had heard of the challenge, she could not refuse. She took to healing stranger and stranger ills the way some men could not content themselves with one glass of wine at a time.

As she inspected the flock, Mat caught up with Wil, who as a young man had flirted with every eligible woman in the Two Rivers before settling down with Elise Marwin. They reminisced about pranks they had played and sweets they had smuggled out under from Mistress al’Vere’s nose. “And then,” Will guffawed, “your sister Bodewhin looked at me like—”

Mat was about to defend Bodewhin’s honor when he saw Perrin racing into the field, panting as if he had run all the way from the forge in Emond’s Field. “Mat!” he cried. “Nynaeve! Thank the Light.”

“What’s wrong?” said Wil. “We’ll get you some water. Elise!”

“No time,” said Perrin. “You—you need to get across the river. Leave this place. They’re taking Wisdoms.”

“What do you mean?” Nynaeve snapped. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

“Armies,” he gasped. “Riding monsters. They came through Watch Hill and Taren Ferry and carried off the Wisdoms. Young girls, too. The ones who fought, they—” Perrin broke off, sweat dripping from his beard. “Mat, they killed Rand.”

“What?” said Mat. This was a nightmare. Any moment Nynaeve would kiss him awake and tell him he had the brains of a goose.

“They took Egwene, put her in a collar like—a mad dog—and Rand lost his mind. He drew a sword on them, the Light knows where he got a sword, and he fought—and they—”

“Then we need to go,” said Nynaeve. “We need to help them.”

“No!” Perrin thundered. “They’ll do the same to you, or worse. Get to the Westwood, the mountains, somewhere away from people.”

“I can’t leave them. My herbs—Mat’s longbow—”

“Nynaeve,” Mat said quietly. “I pledged you my love in front of the Women’s Circle. I told them I would protect and shelter you. We don’t need herbs or weapons or coin, but we do need to leave. Perrin’s right.”

Nynaeve stared. “How can you stand it?”

“Because I have you,” said Mat, “and that’s reason enough to stay alive. But we have to run.”

She gave a grim nod, steeling herself. “I can hide our tracks in the Westwood. Whatever they are, they don’t know this land.”

“That’s right,” Mat said. “Perrin, I can’t thank you enough—”

“You’d have done the same,” Perrin cut him off. For some reason, Mat found himself shuddering. Would he have had the presence of mind, the strength to run all the way? It didn’t matter.

He took Nynaeve’s hand, not sure if he was lending or borrowing her courage, and they started west.

* * *

He was running through the hallways of an enormous building, larger even than the keep in Fal Dara. Larger than a palace. _What would a villager like me know of a palace?_

And he was blind. Every step looked the same, intersection or dead end. Only the slight change of pace in his companions’ shoes on the floor told him that he’d reached a corner. He turned, and they followed him.

“This is where we just were,” complained an old, worn-down voice. “You’re going in circles.”

“What difference does it make?” Mat asked. Every direction was dark. “The corridors are different here. With my luck...”

“Easy, lad,” said Thom Merrilin. “You did well. No shame in resting, now.”

_Thom. I left Thom to die in Whitebridge. Except now, he’s the guest of some bloody lord of Cairhien, to hear Rand go on about it._

“Those flaming foxes tricked us,” said Mat. “I won’t surrender to a creature that wants to wear my skin for a coat.”

Thom was plucking at a harp, murmuring a lament. His own. Well, Mat was not going to sit around waiting for the old gleeman to mourn, eyes or no eyes.

“The firesticks! Noal, the firesticks,” he called. _Who is Noal?_

The old voice gave a laugh. “They won’t work here any more than they worked in the last hallway.”

“We’re not going to detonate them from down the hall,” Mat said. “The smoke, it gets in your eyes, too. Slows you down. But I don’t have any eyes to blind, do I? Flaming sons-of-goats saw to that.” _Foxes who were sons of goats?_

“We still won’t know which way to take,” Thom said.

“Hasn’t stopped you before, has it?”

“Don’t be a fool, Matrim,” said Noal.

Thom snorted. “You’re one to talk.”

Someone thrust an assortment of items into his hand, and Mat found he recognized them. Where to strike, where to aim. “Give Moiraine my thanks for dragging me out of Emond’s Field,” he said. “There was quite a world to see.”

_Moiraine? What did she have to do with anything? And how much of the world had he seen before the darkness set in?_

He heard one group of footsteps retreat away from him. Then, a few steps at a time, he listened for another—for something unnatural, not quite human. Waited until they were almost upon him, their scent and sound a looming curse.

He lit the firestick, and they recoiled in pain. To him it was just a loud noise, like the piercing tone of a flute.

“And there’s more where that came from, you snakes,” he said, sprinting to the next corner. There might have been blood dripping from his leg. It didn’t matter; it wouldn’t have marked his direction anyway. “Just you try to cross Matrim Cauthon. Just you try.”

* * *

“I read about Semirhage in the White Tower,” Nynaeve reflected. “She had been a great healer, once, before she turned to the Shadow. The skills needed to torture someone and cure them were much the same.” She shuddered. “It does not bear thinking about.”

“Blood and bloody ashes, Nynaeve,” said Mat. He looked over at Elayne, as if daring her to chide him for his language, but the Daughter-Heir merely stood primly. “You’d never torture anyone. Even if you had to fight a fl-a Forsaken, you’d be quick about it.”

“I’d like to think so,” said Nynaeve distantly.

They joined the crowds in Mol Hara Square. Though Elayne was in the city in her capacity as an Aes Sedai, she was also a noblewoman of Andor, so she stood near the front with other honored guests. Light, with Morgase dead, she ought to be the Queen! She ought to be leaving Nynaeve and this fool nonsense about a bloody bowl and get back to Caemlyn!

But instead, she watched attentively along with the others as a wizened servant proclaimed Beslan Guillroe, by the Grace of the Light, Master of the Four Winds, Guardian of the Sea of Storms, High Seat of House Mitsobar, and King of Altara.

“Master of the Four Winds,” Nynaeve scoffed, as they met back up with Elayne. “Anyone who could control _one_ wind would be a greater king than any who live, the way the Dark One moves.”

“I think this will do him good,” said Elayne. “Once he stops playing at duels and dreaming of glory, he might be a fine statesman.”

“All of his brothers died in duels,” said Mat. “Do you think the coronation will stop him, if that didn’t?”

Elayne was saved from having to venture an answer by Thom’s arrival. Light, he was more than old enough to be her father! The way she smiled up at him was just not proper. “Master Merrilin,” she said politely. “Will you do me the honor of accompanying me to the funeral feast?”

“I could,” said Thom. “But I thought Mat and I might have a drink. If not in the Rahad, some tavern that won’t see the succession as a reason to get in the way of business.”

“I’d love to,” said Mat. “But won’t people expect me to put in an appearance?”

“They might. So Lady Elayne can tell them that all the—emotion of these weeks was too much for you to handle, and you prefer to be alone.”

Mat smiled. “Every once in a while, _Daes Dae’mar_ is good for something.”

“What about you?” Elayne asked Nynaeve. “Are you fit to mourn in public?”

“The late queen’s death was a loss to the city,” said Nynaeve smoothly. “I appreciated her hospitality. As a representative of the lawful White Tower, I may pay my respects.” Now that was an Aes Sedai answer if he’d ever heard one, oaths or no oaths.

“Give my condolences to Beslan,” Mat said. “And tell him that if _he_ tries to make a pass at me, I’ll have his guts for breakfast.”

“I’ll be sure to use that language,” said Elayne.

“Mat,” said Nynaeve, almost concerned, “what Tylin did to you was wrong. There is no need to...put on bravado...for us.”

Women! Just when he was free of one, the others had to go and pity him like a child! “I don’t put on anything just because you snap your fingers, and I sure as blazes don’t take anything _off_ at anyone’s say-so.”

“But she’s dead now,” said Elayne. “She can’t hurt you anymore. It’s all right to be angry.”

“If I’m still sober when I get back from the Rahad I’ll show you anger, you _drovan narfa! Caballein misain ye!_ ” The women exchanged a glance, and Mat stepped away. “Let’s have that drink.”

* * *

The man who had once been called Matrim Cauthon stood at attention where Moghedien trod. His dagger was in a little box set on the table; this close, he could have felt his way to it blindfolded.

“So impatient?” she chided. “You know the traps take both _saidin_ and _saidar_ to open.”

He wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth, but he had no desire to test her. Not yet.

Finally, Demandred arrived, stepping through as if he had torn a hole in the air. “Lews Therin grows bolder every day!” he raged. “He must have rediscovered Traveling. He delights in letting my spies see him in every city at once, just to taunt me.”

“I begin to think Ba’alzamon was right about you,” said Moghedien. “For all I know, one of his chits Skims him from place to place. He has one in every city, no doubt.”

Dovie’an Calkeisa—it was the name he had chosen for himself, _Luck of the Red Jewel—_ fidgeted, but said nothing. But either Moghedien noticed him, or she was feeling indulgent. “Let the child have his toy. He is prompter than you.”

Demandred did not move, but a moment later, Moghedien opened the box. Dovie’an grasped the ruby dagger, caressing it slowly. Only with his weapon was he complete.

Did the Forsaken fear him, to keep him apart from it for so long? It was laughable. They could wield the One Power, while he was good for nothing more than separating drunk gamblers from their coin. But surely there was a reason it had been called “the Dark One’s own luck,” not the Creator’s or the Dragon’s or anyone else’s.

 _The Great Lord_ , he reminded himself. Not Shai’tan or the Dark One. Why, after so many months, did it still feel strange?

“You,” said Demandred. “Where is Lews Therin?”

“The last time I saw him, he was in the Waste,” said Dovie’an truthfully. What Lews Therin wanted in the Aiel Waste was no concern of his; there was probably less of Rand al’Thor left in him than there was of the boy Mat Cauthon in Dovie’an.

“That is well,” said Demandred. “The wars may not be fought on the fields of his choosing.”

“Enough!” said Moghedien. “If you want to charge into battle like a _s’redit,_ you will miss the two-step underfoot. You will not move against Lews Therin until the Great Lord himself commands.”

Demandred gave a dry laugh. “Are you the Nae’blis, to prophesy so?”

She ignored him. “Dovie’an,” she went on, “I have a task for you.”

“I live to serve, Great Mistress,” said Dovie'an. “Allow me to keep this blade, and I will bring you the head of anyone you name.”

“Men!” she said. “Always with their blades. No, this job is more subtle, if you have the skill for it.”

He bowed in place of an answer.

When he looked up, Moghedien was holding a small herb pouch. “You will find Nynaeve al’Meara, the woman from your village. You will put some of this in her drink. Not too much, mind you, or she’ll be no good to anyone. Once she has drunk of it, you will signal me on the call box. Is that clear?”

“Very, Great Mistress.” Dovie’an sniffed the pouch. Nothing he recognized, though he had not expected to.

“You may embark as soon as you have had your fill of the pleasures here,” said Moghedien. It was her manner of disdain, of telling him to hurry along and stop stroking his dagger, but he ignored her, just as he ignored the nick in his finger. The Great Lord had granted him immortality. He had all the time in the world.

* * *

There was another Portal Stone where the party stood, like the one they had departed near Stedding Tsofu. But the trees were almost bare; only a few yellow leaves clung to the branches, buffeted in the wind, and unfamiliar hills rose on the horizon.

He would remember little about the journey, with the curse of the dagger still rotting his mind. Sounding the Horn in Falme, stumbling across Aiel. But the visions of what might have been were quickly forgotten. And Mat found that, while he resented many of the holes in his head, those worlds were not something he cared to recall.


End file.
